


How It Happened, How She Got Here (Wanda's Story)

by cornichaun (cerebel)



Series: Public Defender 'Verse [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Illegal Immigration, Immigration, Juvenile Detention, Minor Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The garbage American legal system, Trauma, lawyering, public defenders, why are we this way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 10:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14668983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cornichaun
Summary: This is how Wanda Maximoff comes to America; this is how she comes to work for Phil Coulson in the Office of the Public Defender. This is part of the Public Defender 'verse. You don't need to read the other part of the 'verse to read this one; if you do read both, it just adds additional context, etc.Deals with sensitive content re: juvenile immigrants. Heed tags.





	How It Happened, How She Got Here (Wanda's Story)

**Author's Note:**

> Special Immigrant Juvenile Status is a real thing, but it was not, in fact, available at the time when Wanda is supposed to have immigrated (sorry); there is, in fact, a juvenile detention center that houses juvenile illegal immigrants outside a small town in Virginia, and it's terrible; legal immigration proceedings really do take years at a time, leaving kids locked up for no other reason than immigration. If the kids commit a crime (such as assault) during that time, the public defenders in the local jurisdiction are appointed to represent them. 
> 
> If you're interested in further resources or information, feel free to ask.

This is Wanda’s story: 

Once upon a time, there is a girl –

No. 

Once upon a time, there are twins. And they have a sister. 

\--

Sometimes, Wanda feels as though her life started in Texas, just across the border, as she screamed and screamed, as her brother’s hands slipped out of hers. 

But, let’s start it almost a year earlier, with Wanda and Pietro and Anya curled up against cold metal in a cargo boat, with the deafening vibration of the horn palpable between Wanda’s teeth. Let’s start it with slipping out of a country at war, falling apart without the frigid discipline of the Soviet Union to keep it together. 

They make it to South America, and today Wanda couldn’t even tell you what country they landed in. She remembers Anya learning Spanish, snarling at older men making strange offers. She remembers catching rides in rickety trucks and buses that stink of sweat and cigarettes and manure. She remembers sweating in the incredible, thick heat. 

She remembers when the Mexican authorities found them, unable even to speak Spanish, and the disgusted, tired tone of voice they used. Anya and Wanda were separated from Pietro, and Wanda was dumb with confusion and exhaustion. Kept in one room, with eight other girls, then nine, then ten. All children, none of them Mexican citizens. They weren’t fed, just detained. The toilet backed up after an hour. One girl was four or five, and she wouldn’t stop crying. 

There was a breaking point, eventually. 

When the door opened, in the early hours of the morning, the girls flooded out against the guards, screams and fists and chaos. Wanda huddled against the wall, panicked, until Anya grabbed her hand. Anya had the keys, from the guard’s belt. 

They released the boys. They took Pietro. They ran; they climbed a fence and crossed a sluggish, muddy river, and ran and ran and ran. 

\--

She remembers the last moments, months later, before she and Pietro crossed the border into America.

Anya held both of Wanda’s hands. 

“You’ll be all right,” says Anya; her voice, as always, is a force of command. Is a whirlwind in which Wanda loses herself. 

Wanda nods. She has nothing left; she cannot cry. 

She sleeps across the border, with Pietro’s arms around her. She shouldn’t sleep. She has never been more scared. But her body has reached the end of its capacity for shock and fear, and as long as Pietro is still with her ( _Anya, Anya, Anya_ ) then she is all right. 

In Texas, they wander over endless flat plains, in confusion. They run into a house. They speak in broken English to a woman there, who gives them water and sits them at the kitchen table. 

A few hours later, the immigration authorities arrive. 

Pietro’s hands slip out of hers. 

She doesn’t see him again for three full years. 

\--

There are only a handful of juvenile detention centers in the country that handle illegal immigrants. Pietro Maximoff ends up in Chicago. Wanda Maximoff ends up outside of a little town in Virginia. 

She doesn’t speak a word for six months. 

\--

Wanda is fierce. There is no one like her here; the other girls all have darker skin, and they speak Spanish. They exclude her, because she looks like she should belong in America, even though she doesn’t. They bully her, the same way the guards bully them. She kicks and bites, vicious, and this, eventually, is how she finds herself in a Juvenile/Domestic Relations courtroom. 

A lot of things happen, quickly. The most important, the one Wanda remembers, is when a man in a black suit takes a seat next to her. 

He doesn’t smile at her. 

Good. She’s so sick of smiles, because they’re always too much teeth and nothing that matters. On the other hand, he does meet her eyes, through the tangled hair that she tries to hide behind. And when he meets her eyes, there is no threat, no false concern, no resentment, no fear. 

He calms her, just with that. 

Later, he speaks with her. 

“My name’s Phil Coulson,” he says. “I’m your lawyer.” 

She crosses her arms. As best she can, anyway. She is cuffed, of course. Wrists shackled to her belt. 

“I’m here to defend you on the assault charges,” he says. She doesn’t catch some of that, and he goes back and explains; by the time it’s straightened out, she is engaged in the conversation, despite herself. She hasn’t spoken, but she doesn’t have to, with Phil. 

This is what he emphasizes: 

“I work for _you_ ,” he tells her. “I do what you want me to do. Okay? I’m not here to look out for some ‘best interests’ thing – you have a guardian ad litem for that. I’m here to try and figure out what you want to happen, and then go ahead and try and make that happen. Make sense?” 

No. It doesn’t make sense. She wants it to make sense, but it doesn’t. 

“First crack at the court system, as a kid, you get for free,” he explains to her. “What they’re doing right now is they’re saying there’s enough there to find you guilty of assault, but they’re not finding you guilty. If you can stay out of trouble in there, this all goes away. It’s in your hands.” 

It’s not in her hands. Nothing is in her hands. Pietro is gone. Anya is gone. The guards are so cruel, and she is lost, and she is alone. 

“I’m going to tell you about something important,” he says. “It’s called Special Immigrant Juvenile Status.” He pauses. “And I can try and get it for your brother, too.” 

She starts to cry. He gives her a handkerchief, and he tells her she can keep it. 

\--

This is what they have to prove to the court: 

One, that Wanda (and Pietro) have been abandoned, abused, or neglected by one or both parents. 

Two, that they should be allowed to stay. 

\--

She goes to court again, twenty days later, and it’s not Phil Coulson who’s there with her. The next thing Wanda knows, her teeth feel loose, she has bruises all up one arm, and she can taste blood. Her scalp stings, and where she touches it, she realizes that her hair has been ripped out. 

They keep her in a holding cell for the longest twenty minutes of her life, as she shivers and shivers and cries, and then Phil is there. He holds her hand through the bars, and she starts to breathe again. 

Later, she hears him yell –

“Who brought her _up_ for today?” Phil’s voice is harder than she’s ever heard it, and it satisfies her. “Why the hell didn’t anyone tell us?” 

“There was a public defender in the courtroom—”

“Yeah, we’re fungible,” says Phil, bitter, “there’s no difference, right?” 

“Listen, I don’t do the schedules.” 

“Pay attention next time.” 

She tugs Phil’s hand, when they take her to the van to go back to the center. 

“Can I ride with her?” he asks. 

“No,” says one of the guards. 

She doesn’t let go. 

Phil’s expression changes, in a way that Wanda would probably find frightening directed at her. Instead, there’s a little bit of glee, a hint of bloodthirsty joy penetrating the hollow shell of her heart. 

“Let him,” says a woman in a blouse and slacks, curly brown hair, impeccable lipstick. 

“Thank you, Your Honor,” says Phil. 

\-- 

The judge she gets the next time is familiar. A woman, and she has sharp, beautiful features, and curly brown hair, and Wanda is half in love with her just because of the shade of her perfect lipstick. The other half: because she made the guards do what she wanted, with two words. 

“To be clear,” says the judge, whose name is Peggy Carter, “if I find that Ms. Maximoff is under the custody of the state government, and that she has been abandoned by one or both parents, that is sufficient?” 

“Yes, Your Honor,” says Coulson, standing. “We have an order prepared, partially by Ms. Maximoff’s immigration attorney.” 

Ms. Maximoff was unaware that she had an immigration attorney. 

“You’ll meet her later,” murmurs Coulson, as though anticipating the question, even through Wanda’s silence.

“All right,” says Judge Carter. “Is this standard? It seems to me something a lot of those children could use.” 

Her accent is different, thinks Wanda. Is she from England? 

“Some of them immigrated with families,” says Coulson.

“And they’re held in a separate juvenile facility? On their own?” 

Coulson is silent.

Carter mutters something under her breath, and she signs. 

“Do you understand what’s happening?” she asks Wanda.

Wanda does not respond.

“Mr. Coulson?” asks Carter.

“Your Honor, Ms. Maximoff doesn’t speak very often,” says Coulson. _Ever_ , thinks Wanda. “I’ve talked it over with her; she understands what this process is designed to do.” 

“She’s mute?” Carter glances at the deputy. “Do we need a sign language interpreter?” 

“No, ma’am,” says Coulson. “My understanding is that it’s psychological, not physiological.” 

“That’s correct, Your Honor,” says someone from the juvenile facility. “I believe she hasn’t spoken since she was separated from her twin brother.” 

Funny how those words bounce off of her now, like she’s bulletproof. She stares dully at the table in front of her. 

“I’m going to order a ten-day evaluation at the Commonwealth Center.” Judge Carter flips a piece of paper.

Wanda grabs onto Coulson’s arm, suddenly, spasmodically.

He’s on his feet, immediately. “Your Honor, I don’t think that’s necessary,” he says. “We’ve just had testimony that, though Ms. Maximoff is quiet, she clearly understands and follows instructions. She’s done all her schoolwork, she’s reading, she’s learning English. She’s doing well.” He is firm, no stuttering, like some of the lawyers she’s heard. “This is something that needs time, that’s all. Let her come to it on her own.” 

Judge Carter holds Coulson’s gaze.

“I’m trusting you on this, Counsel,” she admonishes.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Coulson.

In the waiting room, before she goes back into the van, she touches Coulson’s arm again. She whispers, ever so quietly, “thank you.” 

“Hey,” says Coulson, and he crouches in front of where she’s sitting. “Hey. You don’t have to thank me. You don’t owe me anything for being a decent human being, and for doing my job. I’m doing this because you deserve it, not for any other reason.” 

She doesn’t believe it; she wants to believe it. 

\--

It takes so long. 

Another few months; her immigration attorney comes around. Name’s Melinda May. She is curt, unlike Coulson and unlike Carter and unlike the guards, but Wanda decides to trust her, because Coulson trusts her. 

Twice, she’s taken up to DC for a hearing in front of an immigration judge. People come and interview her. She’s speaking, now; by the time she started talking again, she was already fully fluent in English. Papers go back and forth. Sometimes they get sent to her, and she tries to go through them, but the thick language defeats her until Coulson comes to visit. 

On her fifteenth birthday, Coulson comes in. “Got a surprise for you,” he says. They take her to another room, a different visitation room, and there, she glimpses a shock of white hair. 

Her arms are tight around Pietro before she’s aware of moving. 

And maybe there was a part of her that was scared they would be different people, now, that he would have moved on, hardened and changed. 

He did, as it turns out. But, exactly like she did. They’re both scarred, mirror images, and then she laughs, because she sees he has a scar on his shoulder in exactly the opposite side of hers. Mirrors. 

They talk for hours. She grips his hand tight. When he has to go, she feels stronger than she has in – 

In three years. 

\--

She gets out first. Walks into the rain, in badly-fitting clothes, and Phil Coulson there to take her to a foster placement. 

Pietro is a couple years behind. 

Wanda finishes high school before he’s out, and starts college before him. They live nearby, independent, but revolving around one another. They are family. 

So she’s out of law school first, too. (He starts his first year while she’s on her third.) 

\--

Why law school? 

What, isn’t it obvious? 

\--

When she passes the bar exam, first try, she goes to that little town and that little public defender’s office, the one she never even saw. She passes by the juvenile court that decided her fate. Tries to gather up her courage. 

She walks inside, and she doesn’t even have to ask for Phil. He’s right there, discussing something with a secretary.

Wanda marches up to him.

“You’re going to hire me,” is how she starts the conversation. “And I’m going to be one of the most incredible lawyers you’ve ever had.” 

He doesn’t recognize her for an instant, then his face clears. Breaks into a grin. 

“You made it,” he says. He means it in every way. She nods, fighting back the surge of emotion that comes with it. 

He shakes his head, but it’s not refusal, just incredulousness. 

“Come on, come back to my office.” He laughs. “You have the most incredible timing. We’re going to have an attorney retire in one month, and in two months, we’re getting an extra position allocated. Where’s your brother?” 

“Not done yet,” she says. “But he’s making better grades than me.” She hesitates. “Will you want me to apply? Go through the whole process?” 

What if he picks someone else? 

“Hell, no,” he says. “Wanda, you’re one of the most incredible _people_ I’ve ever _met_. I don’t doubt for a second you’re going to work well here.” 

\--

She does.


End file.
